Hellooooo! It's been slow and frustrating coming back from the next few chapter drafts being lost (still feel this chapter's shaky), and I want to apologize for taking so long to post, but THANK YOU to all the readers that have stuck around in the interim! Hope you are well!
"That's the thing 'bout these old houses—" Tom asserts lightly, reaching back behind him and pushing shut the door to the smoky kitchen behind them "—built long 'fore our time, lastin' through this one." His hand runs absently through his still damp mop of hair as he returns to his work, "Well water and wood-burnin' boiler; can't beat off-the-grid livin'. Here—" he gestures "—tie that tighter there."
Rising to her knees from the wood-plank floor Beth reaches and pulls more tightly on the nylon twine binding their cargo in place. Their several hours of rest and indulgent start to the morning proved transformative and the three of them, all three freshly showered and in a combination of old and newly claimed garments, work briskly, gathered in the hallway sorting their haul. The items they'd worked all the night before to amass need to be prioritized, abandoned, condensed, bundled and packed. They need to reduce weight and bulk wherever they can, they need to reduce the amount of waste they pack into camp, and they need the things they bring to serve as many purposes as possible. They have to be smart as they pack; they have a long distance to cover so weighted down, and they must be able to shed what they carry quickly if confronted with walkers — if confronted with anything that ends with them running.
For the trek home they give up on the wheeled suitcase they'd used in their house-to-house runs the night before; it has poor weight distribution and will never make it over the uneven terrain of the woods. They pack instead a metal-wire personal shopping cart, one with wheels that look as though they were made for sand, and also a jogging baby stroller, built almost for off-roading. Two will push carts while the third, alternating as they need, assures their path, clearing, culling and scouting.
"Lose that," Beth directs Daryl when she sees him handling a Maglite flashlight she'd grabbed out of a garage. "We don't have the batteries, an' we've got enough for blunt force without it."
"Could use it f'r a suppressor…" Daryl looks at it, weighing it heavy in his hand, but his mind does not linger on it long. "Don't fit anythin' we've got—" He drops it behind him; the dense metal of the forsaken flashlight hits the floor heavily with a rolling kind of thud. Glenn was the one to hold onto things until they proved useful, to scavenge and pack with hope; Daryl keeps his eyes on what's in front of them, now, and moves on to sorting other gear. Their work is quick, like they're under some gun, but having made it through the night without incident they're all together less wary than they were the night before; in the morning light their hurry to depart trumps the caution that starkly guided their shadowed movements through the darkened town. Stealth had been the watchword, now, with a quiet night behind them, they're governed by speed, and though in the darkness drawers and cabinets and doors were opened with the utmost care for noise reduction, now things are being dropped and discarded with little regard for the clamor.
"Eh'vrybdy took the cans an' jars," Beth says, pausing her work to wipe her brow, "but left the dry goods; 's not much, but we've got beans, n' flour, n' mixes, n's grains."
"People're thinkin' short-term then; grabbing whut they could use on th' go." Tom considers the artistically packaged souvenir sack of scone mix he's got resting heavily in his hand, "Nob'dy thought it'd last this long; nob'dy was thinkin' of bakin'. Ev'rybody was on the run." He pulls off the gingham ribbon tie and stuffs the sack into the cart's growing packed load, "Lucky, 'cuz now we're still findin' things to grab. A year or some more... t'won't be nuthin' lef' 'round tuh fin'. No grains, nuthin' refined, or processed, or stored. All paleo—"
While he talks, more to himself than to his companions, Beth stops; something in her stops her. Her eyes fall shut for half a beat longer than an extended blink, her face scrunches, and she winces through the light headedness. Momentarily she's able to focus, she swallows, and, unnoticed by her companions, she breathes in, concentrates, and resumes her task. Sufficiently recovered from the spell, her deft hands work with diligent dexterity to pack and sort and load. She breathes through her mouth, keeps her head up, and works. Beside her Tom transfers the dry goods to ziploc bags, waiting till camp to combine the many nearly-empty sacks of flour and meal and mixes. For now it's small bags, light, and easy to spread throughout their goods. "We'll carry most of 'em on us," he says as he uses one bag pinched as a spout to pour into another. "If it comes to it an' we hav'tuh cut an' run, leastways we'll have the dry stuff." Beth tears open a bag of black-eyed peas and does the same, pulling out a pair of clean socks from the pile of clothes, she pours each foot full of beans, then ties the ends together for a kind of yoke to hang about the neck, knotting each foot midway to disperse and even the weight. Everything that can be is packed in layers — light and balanced enough to keep them mobile, allowing for dexterity and quick evasions. Sooner or later, they will have to run.
"Beth—" Tom stops his packing and holds up a metal kitchen contraption for her to judge. Dryly he looks at it as in the air it splits open at the hinge and one half of it drops heavily down from its center. "You want this?"
Beth looks, then nods, "Mm,hm."
But he doesn't move to pack it, and instead eyes it impassively where it hangs, "What 's'it?"
"A ricer." She continues packing, tucking clothing into blankets and rolling them as tightly as possible, using both her knees and the balls of her hands to keep the pressure on as she rolls and binds.
Tom looks from the oversized press to her, then flips the device like a nunchuck with detached nonchalance, "You bringin' it f'r cookin' or as a weapon?" Inspecting it closer, he asks with passive incredulity, "We need it?" Daryl — who's testing the condition of the wheels and their bearings, greasing them with baby oil and checking the tire pressure — stays out of the deliberation; he trusts Beth not to be frivolous in her choices.
"It's not essential," she concedes, her hands never ceasing their work, "but it'll be nice to have. Chuck it, if there's no room."
Tom inspects it, the old metal heavy in his hand, "It more important than the mortar an' pistol?"
"No," she shakes her head again. Tom shrugs and drops the thing into the pile for the second cart; they're trying to be frugal with space and with weight — not only for the journey back, but also for the realities of living in open space on their small stretch of land — but some things prove to have unknown worth.
In quick time they three shift things around, pack and repack, weigh and redistribute weight. Three backpacks, with blanket rolls tethered beneath, are packed, on top of which Daryl fashions an additional makeshift shoulder pack to carry, not trusting with any certainty they'll make it back to camp with more than what's on their body. Contents are packed based on priority, bulk, and weight. What is most dispensable and oversized goes into the wheeled pushcarts — clothes, blankets, cushions, two sub-zero sleeping bags, the insulation, toilet paper rolls, non-absolute tools and heavy foods and liquids such as the sack of flour and bottle of bleach. In the shoulder pack Daryl will carry are the essentials — over the counter painkillers, salt, pepper, vitamins, batteries, what little ammo they found, and more. In the packs each will carry goes the food, the essential tools, essential clothes items, and all miscellaneous gear and supplies. Into Beth's waistband and Tom's go the two handguns they uncovered; into the shopping cart goes the old shotgun, and strapped to the stroller a signed Louisville Slugger broken out from a glass case above a desk in some bourgeois home office, and a rusting but still lethal garden machete.
As the packs grow and bulge, Daryl weighs and reweighs Beth's, each time pulling more from it, packing the supplies instead into his own or Tom's. He leaves room in the red canvas cart as well, figuring, considering her fatigue the day before, she may well end up pushing more of her load than shouldering it. He does the shifting definitively, without words, and without ceremony, leaving no invitation for Beth to protest or for Tom to take note. They finish, surrounded by circles of discarded plastics, bags, clothing, and objects.
Handling his knife at his belt, his expression squared and firm, Daryl looks to the two eighteen-year-olds as they use fishing line to finish securing the bulk in the packed carts. "Stay here," he grunts, shouldering his bow, "gimme cover, I'll clear the streets."
Two pairs of eyes flash immediately up at him. "Naw," Tom shakes his shaggy head, "don' think so, Cap'in." He glances at Beth then back at Daryl, "We move out t'gether."
"Nuh,uh," Daryl's gravelly voice is short-winded and resolute. "Stay here." His eyes narrow as he peers out the boarded window, "I'll circle back."
"No," Beth asserts, straightening herself. "We all go."
Daryl unslings the bow and in answer crosses to the door. "Ain't a discussion. Won't be long." He lifts the table blocking the front door, looks once at the two he's leaving behind, then turns his eyes outdoors, scans, and steps out into the light.
Behind him Beth and Tom block the door once more then armed with guns move to the windows to cover him. Focusing down the scope of the shotgun, ready to take fire, Tom shrugs in the interim of action, "Feelin' a little second rung."
Beth doesn't answer, her attention is held steadfast on Daryl and on the movements of the street. She sees him fire a bolt but from her vantage point she can't see at what. His eyes move to the windows they stand behind and his hand motions softly at his hip to signal them to stay put, then out comes his blade and Daryl drives it into two walkers roaming through the street. Beth breathes a little easier knowing it's the dead out there he's fighting, but her finger stays lithe on the trigger and her eyes alert, trained and wary. She never takes a shot, Daryl does not linger long in their range of vision; they wait. Stealthily surveying the surrounding streets, Daryl ducks round corners, listens, and watches. There are walkers, but not many, and still no sign of the living.
In minutes, glistening with sweat and splattered some with thick black blood, Daryl returns with a whistle and a signal for the all-clear. Hastily Tom shoves the table aside and lets him in. Wiping his brow, Daryl steadies his breath and his eyes fix on her. He looks at her, tousles Beth's hair, and then they're at it, pulling on their packs. They collect the carts, turn their minds from what resources may still be stored up in the town, and ready to leave the house to first explore the neighborhood gardens closest to the woods, then return to them and make their way back to camp.
"Uh, uh," Daryl crosses to her and her pack as she pulls it on.
Fastening the strap clip at her waist, her face lifts to his, "It's not too heavy."
Ignoring her he tugs on her pack and pulls from it another two cans of something and a jar of spicy mustard. Lifting Beth's pack again he measures the difference the adjustment made; she doesn't have to object, it's her look he answers, "You know," he re-zips the bag still harnessed to her back, "you haven't walked any with it. Rested up and standin' still f'r five minutes ain't the walk we've got ahead of us."
"I love being infantilized," she smiles innocuously. "And you know just how rested I am."
"Clever ain't ya?" he smirks dryly, then tightens and readjusts her shoulder straps.
"If you say so." Beth checks the knife at her hip.
"You're small, 's whut'chy're," he tells her. "Not sayin' y'can't carry your weight, but it should be your weight."
"I'll take 'em." Tom presses past them with the stroller and his pack, "Le's g't going."
Daryl hands off the foodstuffs and shoulders the crossbow over the backpack and shoulder bag he wears. Beth checks her firearm, adjusts her straps and ties tightly the knotted stuffed socks around her waist and makes for the door with the marketing cart.
"Hey—" Daryl's sharply gruff voice stops her "—pretty girl." He reaches out and grasps her wrist as she passes him toward the door; he tugs her back to him. Never minding Tom's proximity, Daryl ducks his head down some toward hers, his eyes searching her face to meet with hers. "Want you usin' yer head out there." Beth looks at him through her clear wide eyes, but he isn't distracted by her youthful ingénue innocence; his grip remains fixed and he looks at her sternly. "Take care o' yerself."
She looks at him, and when the look he's giving her doesn't let up she gives him a smile and pulls away, "Yes, Sir."
"Naw, Beth," he shakes his head brusquely and follows after the steps she takes. "Uh, uh, you don't get t' be flip, not walkin' out the door." He ducks in front of her and looks at her, "Ya hearin' me, Girl?" He holds her gaze. "You gotta say it."
Beth studies him, his rugged face directing her to be careful like he's never done before — she knows why, why he's under-packing her bag and leaving her behind while he clears and why he isn't letting things rest with a sassy retort, but they can't stay where they are: they have a job still to do and a trip back to make, and there's no two ways of getting back; there's never been a heightened state of careful – circumstances have altered, but there's no taking any more care than she always has; she can't be any less of their team – the change is in her body, not the world, survival still requires all it ever has, and she has even more now to fight for — quietly, solemnly, Beth leans in to him some. Lifting herself slightly on her toes, she blinks, and the light flutter of her dark lashes is disarming, as is the coolness of her small voice. "I promise." His words spoken, slowly her mouth turns up some in the shape of a smile, sweet, and almost demure with the faintest showing of her dimples, "I will be careful." Saying the words didn't make her, or the child, any safer, and it didn't change the fact that with only three of them she'll no doubt be actively integral to their safe return, but knowing this she said them for him, knowing assuredly the time will come she'll ask the same words of him. It's her love for him that says the words he asked for, but it's her fondness for who they are and where they've come from that speaks the "Mr. Dixon" once she's back on her heels again and letting flash an actual smile.
Appeased but taunted, his head shakes in answer, "Shut'up," and he pushes her back and out of the way so that he will exit first.
Back on the streets, armed, packed heavy and pushing the stroller and the cart, they make their way through the quiet streets ducking in and out of gardens where they can find them. There isn't much. Beth digs up some onions, loveage, horseradish and radicchio. In the overgrown kitchen garden out back behind the blue house with the large bay windows she smells the peppermint on him as her lover reaches across her to dig up the roots of the artichoke plant. Daryl's muscles strain some as he pulls the firmly rooted plant toward him to expose some opportunity for their hands to dig. So near her as he is he smells like Daryl: like clean sweat and the woods, with traces of the peppermint soap they'd showered with. In the shower they'd shared the amber detergent had made their skin tingle and burn, and under the warmish running water and the sharp sensation of the liquid soap they'd felt singularly alive, clean and refreshed. It's a different sort of invigoration that keeps them active now — every minute the sun moves closer to it's eventual setting and nightfall, they have a rendezvous to make and their own and others' unease and apprehensions to dispel. The clock is ticking.
Below the topsoil the earth they dig into is cold and wet and shakes off the roots of their transplants like heavy clods of snow. Beth, knees wet with dirt, hands and face layered with soil, opens her backpack to shove in the carefully wrapped roots of a hefty rhubarb plant that has gone to seed.
"Greene—" Daryl steps over the gaping garden holes "—give it here." He lifts the plant from her hold and wedges it into the nylon pouch at the base of the jogging stroller. Behind him an impaled walker limps in through the hedges and Tom stands and with a sure and weighty swing bashes in the head with the wooden bat. When the thing falls immobilized Daryl's raspy voice breaks the silence, "C'mon," his head jerks, "gotta get a move on."